


Now Here

by pratz



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pratz/pseuds/pratz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apocalypse starts in two weeks, and all you can think of is <i>Mine. Mine. Mine. Live for me.</i></p><p>Sequel to the <i>Nowhere</i> trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is kind. It is the waiting for the war that is cruel.

**Now Here**

 

Author: pratz

 

Disclaimer: Smokebomb Entertainment. Ouaknine, Simpson, and Hall.

  

-.-.-

 

**one.**

 

War comes with an endearment.

 

_Dearest campus community._

 

The Dean has only been in your head once, that one time she was in your dream before she let you enter her basement at last, but the ice in her voice still makes you sick beyond relief. Dizzy, you try to cover your ears, but your still bandaged right arm stings with ache at your attempt to lift it. You end up rolling onto your side and cover your head with your pillow, but it is of no use. Her voice is still in your head, loud and clear and somber, unimpressed but daunting, but a quick glance at other people in the room makes you know that they have it in their head, too.

 

 _I have noticed lately there has been unrest across the university. As the Dean, I shall make sure order is to be restored._ The voice pauses, and your stomach coils in dread. _In two weeks, you all shall receive justice._

 

You find out later how Silas explodes with panic right after the announcement, but for now you can only look at blankly at the ceiling. Now, you merely open your mouth, dry lips cracking painfully, making you wince and close your mouth again. A low moan slips out, and it announces your waking to the world.

 

 _Laura! You’re up!_ A familiar voice. You look to your left and find Perry. _You got me so worried there, Laura._ You tilt your head aside, looking at her concerned, yet pained, face. _Anyway. Psycho dean aside, at least you’re up now, right._ She busies herself around you to check on whatever monitor is attached to you, your pulse, your breathing. _I’m so glad you’re alright now._

 

 _I’m—_ alright, you want to say. I’m alright. But I’m not. I can’t be. Not like this. Eyes closed, your brain replays the memories of that basement again. You, coming down to the basement as the Dean finally allows you. You, in a cold, dingy room. You, finding an altar bed made of stone. Her body, lying still on that bed. Her face, so pale and so haggard. Her mouth, so thin and so grim. Your hands, reaching out for hers. Your hands, shaking her. Your left hand, finding an abandoned fountain pen at the feet of the bed. Your shaking fist, stabbing the tip of the pen into your right arm, dragging it down, breaking the skin and flesh. Your mangled right hand, above her mouth, waiting, waiting until her eyes snap open, red, so red like unmade mother’s milk. Her, seizing your hand and bringing it to her mouth. Her, in that unrecognizable face and pair of eyes. Her, still her. You shut your eyes harder to block that part of your memories.

 

Perry seems to understand your newfound quiet. She takes a seat on your bed, considering her words carefully before speaking. _Did you remember anything about—you know—that day?_

 

 _I remember everything,_ you say.

 

 _Oh_. She nods.

 

 _Per_ , you call. _Do you know that we humans are made of five liters of blood?_

 

She is quiet for a moment. _Yes._

 

 _I think I lost two that time._ And some part me, too, you add silently. _Is she—_

 

_No. Been brooding in Room 307 ever since, I think._

 

Oh. You bite the inside of your cheeks. Of course. Where else she can be now.

 

Perry, surprisingly gently, pulls your blanket higher so it tucks under your chin. You take her hand, and the tightness in your chest loosens a bit as you hold her hand. Human touch. Fragile, beautiful, human touch. You don’t know you’ve missed it until now.

 

Your chest hurts again, and you gasp out a small cough. You open your eyes to look at the ceiling again. It’s still broken white, and you wonder why part of you is still disappointed that you don’t find her when you wake up.

 

This is all you need to think of: apocalypse starts in two weeks.

 

-.-.-

 

_Are you sure?_

 

You stop tidying the invisible wrinkles on your hospital gown to look at Perry. The stitches on your arm throb as you tighten your grip on the IV stand.

 

This is what you’ve heard: numerous students have tried to escape, but the compound has been barricaded. The physics club lost half of their members in an effort to break the barricade. You had to migrate from the infirmary to LaFontaine’s biology lab because more and more injured bodies were coming. The missing are not coming back. The dead can’t be sent home. You’re all lambs waiting to be sent to the slaughter.

 

You don’t hear from Danny, who is probably busy preparing for next week. You’ve never seen Kirsch anymore, who is probably busy helping Danny. You start counting your friends: Perry, LaFontaine, those who you still see around, those you realize are no longer around, those who might be lying on the fields and swamps around Silas with their neck wrecked and chest open, those who might have found an escape and gone back to their family.

 

(War, you remember Stephen Crane once wrote, is kind.)

 

Perry is still looking at you with a foreign understanding, half pity and half sympathy. _You don’t think,_  she pauses, hesitating,  _we’re really going to war and win, do you?_

 

You open your mouth but close it again before a word can escape. You merely shake your head. She sighs and pats your good shoulder. A rhetoric question always flaunts its own answer, she knows.

 

You go back to Room 307, stopping once every while to catch your breath, leaning against the wall or the IV stand. The walk feels like forever: forever since the dorm is this quiet—restlessly quiet, forever since your head is clear of other people’s voices, forever since you’re looking forward to getting to your room.

 

She is on her bed when you open the door, her back to you, thin shoulders curling into themselves, so small, so young, more human than demon. She is aware of your presence, but the fact that she chooses to not acknowledge you makes you swallow a growl.

 

Without a word, you scoot to her back and lie down. Your healing arm winds around her waist. She remains quiet, but she takes your hand and slips her fingers between yours. The growl you want to swallow slips out as a soft sigh against her shoulder blades. You rest your forehead on her nape, and both of you still. Neither of you will be able to sleep, but none of you is ready to talk either.

 

This is what you’ve been counting: ten days, eleven nights before the war.

 

(It is the waiting for the war that is cruel.)

 

-.-.-

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura. She says your name reverently, exactly the way it is at her tenderest, like it’s holy. Laura.
> 
> You think: why do we always go back to the thing that breaks us?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter and this one are largely influenced by J.M Coetzee’s _Waiting for the Barbarians_. Credits are also given to Sam Beckett’s _Waiting for Godot_ and Vlad Nabokov’s _Invitation to a Beheading_. Thanks to my beta C for all the hard work and the screaming about what she calls propheting (of laura2theletter’s use of the word ‘apocalypse,’ the basement thing, and the deaths, apparently—but that’s kind of easy to figure out when you really pay attention, you know).
> 
> I'm fully aware of my decision to not put warnings of so many things. For, well, what is creative writing if it doesn't lay bare the forbidden and the unspeakable?

**Now Here**

 

Author: pratz

 

Disclaimer: Smokebomb Entertainment. Ouaknine, Simpson, and Hall. 

 

-.-.- 

 

**two.**

 

Carmilla wakes up with a start.

 

In a blink: one second her bony elbow smacks your bandaged arm as her body lurches from the bed, and the next second her other arm is pressing against your throat as she pins you down. Shock and pain choke you, and her eyes are bloodshot and wild, belonging to a wounded animal. Yet before you can utter the first syllable of her name, she snaps back to herself and scrambles backward so fast she would have fallen from the bed if you haven’t caught her on time. The move pulls a muscle in your hurt arm, and you can’t help the small yelp that slips out. She’s already half plastering herself to the wall as her frightened eyes turn full force into self-loathing ones.

 

“I’m s—”

 

“Stop,” you cut, voice raspy, coughing to alleviate the lingering pressure on your throat. “Please.” You reach out a hand, and it takes her some time, some painful time to lay hers there. Your chest throbs again with a twinge of pain at the gesture. “It’s nothing. I’m alright.”

 

Her palm is clammy in yours, but you don’t let go. Your thumb rubs over her knuckles, and you’ve never realized how they’re scarred, roughened by her long years or maybe even before that. Slowly, she slides down until she’s sitting more comfortably, legs folded and back bent. She doesn’t even look at you.

 

“Nightmare?” you try for a start.

 

You watch her throat work, swallowing, veins straining. “My mother.”

 

Even after everything, you think, swallowing a sudden flare of rage. Would you please stop calling her that, you want to yell at her. Why do we always go back to the thing that breaks us?

 

But that's why you are here, part of you reminds yourself.

 

“She was in my head, too,” you say. “Counting down the days.”

 

“Nine days.” Her hand trembles in yours. “So wonderful of her to set a reminder for us.” She snickers bitterly. “Didn’t you sleep?”

 

You shake your head. “Don’t want to.” Can’t, you correct. “Nightmares.”

 

“It shouldn’t be like this.” Her voice rises, steadier but also angrier. “You shouldn’t have come to my mother’s basement. You—“ it is now her voice that trembles, “you should’ve just let me be.”

 

And watch you die? you want to say. We’re finally talking about this and all you’re telling me is that I was supposed to just let you die? “How dare you.” It comes out as a hiss that escapes your gritted teeth, but her non-human ears catch that as clearly as if you have shouted them. Your fingers dig into her skin, and you’re sure you’re cutting the circulation if it were a human hand. “How dare you did that to me,” you hiss out, now shaking her shoulders. “You knew how I would think about it, and you still did it.” The words echo in your head: how dare you how dare you how dare you.

 

“Yes, I did,” she retorts without hesitation, voice so low and so full of enmity even you flinch. “And I will again, if need be. I will burn and kill the whole world, if need be. I will burn and kill the whole world even if it will make you the last person on earth, the last but _alive_."

 

Her admission suffocates you. Your fingers tighten their grip on her shoulders, and—oh god, you moaned in silence. The heat inside you threatens to erupt, but you can’t shatter for the second time because of her. The first time leaves you with a long, mortal gash on your arm, and it nearly kills you both—more brutally for her, more desperately for you.

 

“Because—because have you ever thought of what I want, _Laura_?” The way she says your name makes your skin crawl, so similar to her mother, so unlike her at her tenderest. “I’m always good at following orders, you know that. You said it yourself. But just once—just once—have you ever considered if that basement is what _I_ want?”

 

But what about what _I_ want? Does it mean nothing to you? Do I?

 

Because I want. I want. I want.

 

“I want.”

 

“What?” Her eyebrows furrow, and the muscles on her cheeks tick when she finally, finally turns to look at you.

 

You look back at her in horror, not realizing that you have realized the words out loud. You watch as flames creep back to her eyes, and you both singe with the slow burn. You feel the shudder that travels from her body to yours, and you’re made aware of your incapability of breathing simply by being near her.

 

I make you want, don’t I? I make you want. I make _you_ want.

 

You pull her closer, and she follows, mindful of your arm. Her hair spills like ink on the pillow, and you want to trace each thread if possible. Her lips open, about to say your name, but your fingertips are faster. They touch, her lips and your fingertips, and you pull her bottom lip down a little. A perfect row of white teeth shows, and the tip of your thumb touches the tip of one of her fangs.

 

“Laura,” she says with a warning, pained.

 

“I want you, too,” you say. It’s never been easier, but here you are, the two of you: softer, closer, open. A low moan rumbles from her chest, and you hear it resonate in yours. “So much. Too much. I should not, but I do.” The bravest, stupidest, most selfish Carmilla. You want that Carmilla, all of her, whole.

 

Laura. She says your name reverently, exactly the way it is at her tenderest, like it’s holy. Laura. But it is, you realize. Laura. Your name is holy on her lips, so you kiss her holy, too, holy with want and more want. Laura, Laura, Laura. You breathe her name into her mouth and hope it will be enough to sustain her, nine days before the war.

 

Mine. Mine. Mine. Live for me.

 

-.-.-

 

Eight days before the war. You lower her right leg from your aching shoulder and kiss the inside of her thigh. She sports herself on her elbows, looking at you, spent and calm, but oh how you would commit _da capo_ for that wisp of a smile on her lips. You crawl up her body to reach her lips, and you land a quick peck on one corner of her mouth. She raises an eyebrow as your peck leaves a small dab of her taste there, and she wipes it with a finger. You take her hand, kissing that finger and bathing it with your tongue.

 

The way she watches you and bites her lower lip makes you push her back onto the bed, and you trail kisses down her body, a believer in her temple.

 

When she returns your loving, she lauds you with the holy ghost of her beloved stars in her mouth.

 

-.-.-

 

Six days, seven nights before the war. The two of you hold onto each other as that cold voice is back in your heads again.

 

Will you ever be free, Carm, you wonder. Will I ever be free?

 

-.-.-

 

Five days before the war. You’re running out of trail mix packs, and the only edible food in the fridge are two apples and a box of milk. “I’m fine,” she says when you offer to share with her. You seat yourself on the kitchen counter while she sits on the single stool before you, looking outside the window. You stop chewing for a moment as her figure stops the time for you: her jaw, the sharp line of her cheekbone, the way the light falls on her eyelashes and hangs there like morning dews. She catches you staring, and she tilts her head in question.

 

You put down your half eaten apple and walk the two steps that separate the two of you. Stroking her hair, you let her burrow her face in your stomach.

 

“You haven’t eaten anything,” you say, trying to remember, “since two days ago.”

 

“I’ll survive,” she replies, nuzzling the fabric of your shirt. With her eyes closed, content, an arm around your waist and another around your thigh, she is only that eighteen-year old who happens to live a three-hundred-year life.

 

“Don’t be an idiot.” You tip her chin up, making her looking up at you. You hold your other hand to her lips, trusting her to know what to do. “Come on,” you say, gentler.

 

Her teeth break the skin of your palm, a small cut, and she’s soon lapping your palm. You slip her hair behind her ear, and part of you screams at yourself for doing this. You don’t look away, though.

 

She later places a reverent kiss on your palm, lingering, perhaps even memorizing. When she looks up, she gives you a grin and you still don’t look away from the bright red smear on her lips and teeth. Your fingers on her nape still as her deft ones unbutton your pants and pull the zipper down. You can’t even bring yourself to care enough to pull the curtain close as she kneels in front of you and takes off your pants. You hold yourself up with a hand on the cupboard and another on her shoulder, the latter leaving crimson marks on her pale skin.

 

Mine, you think again. Mine.

 

-.-.-

 

Three days, three nights before the war. Perry drops by to check on you both, and as much as she’s spooked by how fictional the reality has been, she gives the two of you a disapproving look at the dirty bed sheets, blankets, and clothes on the floor. She kicks a red thong to the side as she takes to stand in the middle of your room. _For the sake of everything that’s holy,_  she groans, shaking her head, _when was the last time you cleaned?_

 

You shrug, and behind you Carmilla shifts closer to your hips. _The world is ending in three days, Per. Let’s not waste our energy at doing the laundry._

 

Perry gives you her Not Amused look. _Did you even get any sleep?_

 

 _No_ , you reply. _I can’t._ Sleeping brings you closer to that cold voice and farther from Carmilla. Not sleeping helps you stay away from nightmare and stay close to the only person that matters.

 

 _Jesus_. Perry covers her mouth. _How?_

 

You shrug again. _Caffeine pills and sheer will._

 

Perry finally relents and promises to drop by a bit later with some provision. Her update also lets you know that the anxiety of being barricaded has led to either desperate measure or pure bravery to brace the oncoming war. Apocalypse has bled into Silas like a plague. With no communication with the outside world, the campus community has readied itself for the worst. _Hope is high-priced_ , Perry says. _We don’t even know what kind of war we’re going to. We don’t know anything about the Dean’s army of the undead, and,_ she hesitates, _I totally understand if Carmilla is off limits now for questioning._

 

You think: we’re all townspeople, barricaded for the guillotine. Caged lambs, bred for slaughter. Human, reduced.

 

-.-.-

 

Three days, two nights before the war. You pick up her Agamben book from the corner of the room. It seems that she has thrown it out of anger on that day before her disappearance. You shake your head to get rid of the memories of the basement. You still don’t know what angered her that day, and you wonder if she would ever tell you. It’s almost been two months, and she never mentions anything about it.

 

You put the book on your desk. She stirs on the bed, mumbling your name. Never a morning person even in the face of the apocalypse, you think—for once finding a bit of humor in these bleak days. You go back and curl yourself along the curve of her body, her naked back cool pressed against your front.

 

“Carm.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Don’t you wish we can just live in bed?”

 

She pulls one of your arms and brings your hand to her chest. “That’ll be heaven.”

 

Do you think we’re so fatalistic? Do you think this war dooms us to nihilism? Why don’t we have a second chance? Why don’t we have more time?

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” she drawls, turning around in your arms so she’s now facing you.

 

Your fingertips ghost along her cheekbone, to her jawbone, to her chin. She’s so beautiful, you think, soft in the morning, sharp lines tempered by sorrow. I want a second chance. I want more time. I want to be selfish with you. Of course, you don’t count your pennies. You merely lean closer and touch your lips to hers, taking that first breathe of wakefulness, that first gasp of hunger. I want to want you more.

 

“I’m angry all the time,” you say.

 

“So am I,” she says. “At first, it’s at you.” For making me want, you hear the unspoken. “Then at myself. More at myself.” For wanting, you hear, too.

 

Your hands reaccustom themselves to her body—not that they forget, no. As a cool hand lifts the edge of your shirt, you swear silently at your decision to put on your shirt back when you woke up this morning. Your cursing, however, immediately short-circuits as her hand leaves your shirt and slips between your bodies and further between her own legs.

 

Your face burns with the realization, and you half-freeze. “Did you—are you—” you sputter. “Good lord, Carmilla....”

 

She laughs softly. “C’mon.” She takes your hand and guides it to rest on the back of her other hand. “Don’t be an idiot,” she says, using your own words from before. She lifts her left leg and bends the knee, making space for your hand. “Want me more until you can’t want me.”

 

You recover as her breath graces your neck. “Impossible,” you say. “I’ll always want you.” As if to stress your words, you put a pressure on the back of her hand, guiding those lithe fingers of hers to go lower, inside, deep, deeper, coaxing a moan from her. She replies with a grin and a longer moan, and you lose yourself in her.

 

-.-.-

 

On the penultimate day, she tells you about her last day in 1698. I wish I could tell my father about you, she says. I wish you could tell him that no, you don’t read me bad poetry or steal my afternoon cake or step on my toes when dancing.

 

You grimace. “Is that what you want?”

 

She shakes her head, quiet and younger again. “I want to be forgiven.”

 

This is how you both spend the afternoon: she gasping out the same words over and over, you telling her that you want more time with her. I want to be forgiven, too, you think. And I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

 

Let's not die, you and I.

 

-.-.-

 

Perry and LaFontaine goes to see you in the last morning before the war. Carmilla is still getting ready, so you close the door to Room 307 behind you and talks to them in the hall.

 

 _When—if I don’t make it,_ you swallow, _let me rest beside her._

 

 _Laura,_ Perry begins.

 

 _Please._ You know Carmilla will go after the Dean, and you too know you will go with her unto whatever end. _Please_.

 

They both sigh and, at last, nod.

 

-.-.-

 

She holds your hand as you approach the open field on the east side of the campus.

 

Mine, you say to yourself while looking at her. Live for me.

 

As if knowing, she turns to look at you and tightens her hold.

 

-.-.-

 

It’s a movie in slow motion: amidst the snow she approaches the Dean and takes advantage of her being distracted by a diversion provided by some Summer Society members, leaping across her dying brother, whom she has barreled down before. The blade in her hand finds its target in the Dean’s chest. Both fall to their knees, the Dean clawing at her sides with a repetition of _Oh daughter, daughter, my beloved daughter_ , she pulling the Dean closer and twisting the blade deeper with a broken credo of _I_ _’m sorry, Maman, I’m so sorry._

 

It’s a movie in slow motion: amidst the snow Will comes from behind her with a broken stake, the one she uses to impale him with earlier, the one he rips out from his own chest, the one he runs her through with and makes you scream and stagger to get to your feet and to her.

 

 _I’m sorry, sister,_ you hear him mutter to her with his dying breath, and he slumps as his body slowly turns to dust. The Dean's arm reaches past Carmilla's shoulder, holding him to them, Carmilla in the middle, part of a family damned together.

 

“Carmilla, no. No.” He must miss. It can’t be. The stake must miss. It must. “Carmilla!” you try to scream, but your throat is so parched and you’re too far from her. A broken leg doesn’t help either.

 

It’s a movie in slow motion: amidst the snow and ruins and so much blood, she lets go of the Dean’s body, which also slowly disintegrates. Her hands are almost black with blood, and when she turns around the sight of so much red on her chest burns your eyes. No. It can’t be. The stake must miss. It must. It must.

 

You drag yourself to get her, and she’s already choking on her own blood as she collapses onto her back. You manage to reach her, and you scurry to pull and turn her over. Her weight caves in on you, and she’s half sprawled on top of you. Your ribs hurt, but your chest hurts more. You almost can’t breath.

 

She coughs weakly, and spilled blood wets your neck and shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she says. “My heart—Will—missed—s’okay.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” you choke. Your body hurts everywhere, and you can’t even lift a hand now as more of her blood seeps into your front. Please. Don’t you dare. Live. Live.

 

“Not goin’—nywhere—right.”

 

She’s getting blurry. Or perhaps it’s your eyes. Or the snow. Or all of them. No. Don’t. Stay. Live. Please. Please. Live. Please. Live for me.

 

“Laura.”

 

She says your name, just once, at her tenderest, like it’s holy, and that’s the last thing you remember before the sight pales, the world discolors, and everything fades.

 

-.-.-

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nineteen years, eleven months, three weeks, five days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aging sky, pale twilight” is from Sapardi Djoko Damono’s poem _Landscape_. It’s time for me to watch the last three episodes, isn’t it? Thank you for reading the whole saga, everybody!

**Now Here**

 

Author: pratz

 

Disclaimer: Smokebomb Entertainment. Ouaknine, Simpson, and Hall.

 

-.-.-

 

 

Your eyes open to the sight of an aging sky and pale twilight. White, all white. The sky doesn’t end and the ground doesn’t start. You look around only to find nothingness. A dream, you realize. You raise your palms up and look at them: fragile, human flesh. But I’m not supposed to have any dreams like this anymore, you think. The Dean is gone. She’s dead. I saw her die. Does this mean I’m dead, too?

 

_You’re very much alive._

 

You twist around so quickly, and that girl in the white nightdress is standing behind you. She gives you a harmless smile, but she keeps her distance when you take a step towards her.

 

 _Ell_ , you say her name with your sandpaper tongue.

 

 _Laura, isn’t it?_ she begins. _I believe I haven’t introduced myself properly, but—_

 

Where’s she?

 

Ell’s smile doesn’t falter, and you feel your hands tremble as you curl them into fists. _Would you like to walk with me?_ She doesn’t wait for you either, merely turning around and starting a slow walk. Her steps are light and measured, the way a lady is trained to be, and you realize that this is the self she has been carrying the whole time she is trapped in the dreamscape. A person I’d never know, you think. Someone from a different time, different place, different everything. You know someone like that.

 

She leads you to a bundle of black full of scars, a cat the size of a Sumatran female tiger, lying on its side, bruised and battered, breathing shallowly, its ribs moving up and down the only indication that it’s alive. She sits next to it and lifts its head to lay it on her lap. The gentleness of her gestures makes you feel sick and terrified at once.

 

 _She’s still fighting_ , she says. _Parts of her mother got inside her when she died. A kind of poison, a kind of parasite. In this form, the recovery is much faster, I suppose._

 

Oh god, you realize with a horror. Oh god.

 

Your hand reaches out to touch the cat, but she stops you. _Please don’t_ , she says. _This is not your battle to fight, Laura._

 

No. You’re wrong. It’s my battle, too. You’re wrong.

 

 _She... absorbs life source to sustain herself,_ she says. _This dreamscape—this plane—isn’t meant for human like you, Laura. The closer you get, your life source will be absorbed, too. The longer you stay, you’ll be wasted away, too._ Ell looks down at the cat’s closed eyes, fingertips stroking the scar above its left eye, and your stomach coils with nausea.

 

Give her back, you want to scream. Give her back to me.

 

_Will she come back?_

 

Ell meets your eye again. _It’s not for me to answer._ She only holds your gaze for a brief moment before looking at the cat again. _Maybe this—being here—all of this—is the best for her._

 

 _I’m the best for her,_ you say. I was the one who went for her when she tried to die, and it was my blood that she consumed. But she stopped for me. She stopped herself for me, and after that I kissed her many, many times. I kissed her first thing in the morning and last thing in the night. I kissed her with her mouth still tasting of blood. I kissed her when her lips tasted like tears, and I touched her again and again. And she let me touch her, and she touched me, too. _So please. Just give her back to me._

 

 _You made her want,_ Ell says. _And she had only hatred for herself for it._

 

I have enough love for the two of us.

 

For the first time Ell’s smile turns bittersweet, as if hearing the words inside your head. _Nineteen years, eleven months, three weeks, five days._

 

What?

 

 _The longest time you may have to wait for her. It can be shorter, but it can also be that long._ Ell looks you in the eye. _Can you wait?_

 

The ground beneath your feet is shaking, cracking, its mouth opening to swallow you.

 

_Will you, Laura?_

 

You’re fading. No, no, no, please, no. I need to be here. I want to be here. Don’t send me back, please. Not now. She’s mine. She lives for me. And you’re brutally pulled out of the dreamscape and your eyes snap open and your body jolts from the hospital bed and you almost kick Perry and Danny and you’re back, you’re back, you’re back. You hear frantic voices: _Laura, oh god! Thank god you’re awake!_ and _I’ll get LaFontaine, alright? Stay with her, Danny!_ and _Hey, Laur!_

 

Your cheeks are wet when you raise a hand to touch your face. No aging sky, no pale twilight. No black cat, no cut above the left eye, no consuming whiteness. Only Silas and your friends and what the war has left: survivors.

 

(Nineteen years, eleven months, three weeks, five days, the longest. Today, the shortest. Never, not an option.)

 

You will wait.

 

(Mine. Mine. Mine. Live for me.)

 

-.-.-

 


End file.
